A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IS MADE

“Allons-y!” shouted Jean Méchant. “Everybody from our canoe, let’s go!”

“What are we doing?” asked Jean Luc.

“It is time to prepare our goods for the trip back to Montreal. We leave tomorrow.”

This was it! The big moment. I couldn’t help but squirm with anticipation.

“Le Rouge,” Jean Gentille scolded, “all this crawling about on my head is making my scalp itch!”

“Pardonnez-moi,” said I jumping off. “Excuse me, but I am excited!”

And why was I excited?

Because, at long last, I would find out what we would receive in exchange for our goods.

It made me want to sing!

I trembled with excitement as I scampered up the trail.

I could not help a few acrobatics on the way.

I chirped!

I barked!

I threw in a few somersaults.

We came to a building.

“Is this it?” Jean Luc asked.

“This is it,” Jean Méchant said.

“This is it!” I squeaked, and when the door opened, I flew inside ahead of the others. What would I find? Buckets of pine seeds? Piles of acorns? Boxes of mushrooms?

But I saw none of these things. Instead, what did I behold?

The skins of dead animals.

To the front of me.

To the back of me.

To each side of me.

And even above me.

The skins of wolves, martens, bears, lynxes, raccoons, minks, and beavers hung from the rafters. Especially beavers. Beaver pelt after beaver pelt. Dozens—no, hundreds—of pelts, furs, skins.

And traps. Dozens of metal traps. Traps that shut with a sickening snap! A splintering crunch!

What could it all mean?

We had come such a long way for this?

Perhaps some horrible mistake had been made, I thought. But, no! I saw the man behind the counter counting out skins.

“What is this place?” Jean Luc asked, looking around at the furs and all the other trade goods.

“This is the trade store,” said Jean Méchant.

The rafters were hung with pelts, and furs were stacked on tables. Shelves were piled high with blankets, bolts of cloth, beads, and silver jewelry. There were birch-bark boxes and baskets full of wild rice and maple sugar.

“Here the Anishinaabeg come to trade, bringing furs, fish, game, wild rice, and maple sugar, and here we pick up our furs for the return trip,” explained Jean Gentille. “These furs will be packed into bales, weighed, and bundled up for the long voyage to Montreal and beyond.”

“B-B-B-But…,” I stammered. I ran along the shelves to talk to them. Perhaps I knocked a few beads off as I went. I might have spilled a little wild rice. Maybe a few silver trinkets clattered to the floor.

But was that any reason to chase me?

Around and around the store I went, with several voyageurs close behind. I scampered up into the rafters.

“Shoo! Shoo!” the voyageurs said.

“Shoo! Shoo!” shouted the man behind the counter. “Or do you want us to hang your sleek red suit from the rafters, too?”

The men’s laughter cut like daggers.

Off I went, a blur of red.

I darted.

I dashed.

I wove in and out of the furs.

Up and down the walls I went.

Here came the men after me. But it was a small space crammed with goods.

Jean Louis tripped.

Jean Paul slipped.

Jean Claude bumped into Jean Méchant.

Jean Méchant bumped into Jean Jacques.

Jean Jacques bumped into Jean Luc.

Jean Luc bumped into a big pile of cast-iron cooking pots that all tumbled down with a crash and a clatter.

Just as Jean Henri was about to snatch me by the tail, Jean Gentille scooped me up and carried me outside.

“Lucky for you,” he said, “that you are not a beaver. For, you know, the Englishmen must have their hats. The hats made from the fur of beavers are so popular in England and Europe that every fellow there must have one or two or three.”

I groaned.

“Also lucky for you that you are so small, Le Rouge,” he said to me. “Your pelt is not very valuable. Otherwise, they would be more serious about trying to catch you.”

At that I had to sit down with my head between my knees.